Roots of my own
by Teinien
Summary: Draco isn't heartless enough not to give some comfort when needed. And you can tell someone a lot with a simple gesture. Dracos PoW. POST-WAR. Short one-shot drabble.


**A/N: I dont own Harry Potter or any other work of J.K. Rowling. This is just for fun. Thank you.**

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Two days ago when you came to work you almost skipped in the corridor with your brown curls bouncing up and down, for a moment forgetting the grown up in strict robes that you are for the joyous little girl you once must have been. You were holding a rose, the biggest reddest rose I seen for a long time, close to your chest, almost hugging it, like you must have hugged the one who gave it to you. I could see in your eyes how happy you where, how much that single flower meant.

I could only guess who gave it to you, but it must have been someone you really liked, nothing else could have kept that big smile on your face the whole day. And you were so nice to everyone, even me, helping out with the smallest problems and handing out compliments. The whole apartment walked around smiling that day, thanks to you.

You found a vase, somewhere, I didn't even know there was one around, which tells how much I know about this place. True, I only worked here for a couple of months but somehow it feels much longer. I watched you as you carried the vase to your desk, carefully, as if it was a precious relic of some kind. And more then once during the day you glanced up at it, watching it for a while before going back to work.

I know this, because I was watching you then, as I watched you yesterday when you were leaning over your desk with your head buried in your arms, your back shaking slightly and low, very low sobs erupting from beneath your brown curls.  
Who had made you so sad? Who had hurt you so badly as to still have you crying when you got to work?

I wasn't sure about what to do so I did the only thing I feel was the right to do. You didn't even notices as I made my way over to you and wasn't until I place my arm around your slumped shoulders that you jumped, almost elbowing me in the face before you relaxed again, realising I wasn't a danger to you. Somehow that subconscious action of trust, after all the things I've done to you, made its way inside my body and warmed around my heart.

Your eyes were all red from crying and you tried to wipe leftover tears away with the back of your hand. It's like you didn't want me to know that you been crying. Why are you always so brave, so careful not to burden someone else with your problems? I wouldn't be sitting next to your chair and holding an arm around you if it wasn't to comfort you when I knew that you need it.

Your eyes flickered up to look at the rose and something inside them grew cold and hard. So the one who gave you the rose did this to you? Why would someone who you held so high in affection, someone who gave you that flower as a token of what you meant for him, why would he be the one who also made you cry?

Another glance at the flower in its slim vase and then your wand was in your hand and the red flower shattered in a rain of petals. The only thing left was the steam, looking abandoned in the pale vase.

"I never liked cut flowers anyway, they always depend on you to give them what they need to live." you said, the venom in your voice showing the double meaning of your words. Then you got up from the chair, fixing your clothes and grabbing your folders and papers from the desktop. "They always die, without roots to keep them alive."

With those words you left the office, none of the happy little girl could be seen in your walk anymore. I watched you go, still kneeling at your empty chair.

You didn't come back for the whole day. I left for lunch and even returned late, but you still didn't show up again. It was good in a way, because then I could do as I planned without having to explain myself to you. I hoped you wouldn't mind but I felt that I needed to do something to bring that smile of yours back again. And as I left for the day I couldn't help smiling a bit to myself, I really hoped that I had done the right thing.

o

Now I was sitting at my desk, looking at the small piece of paper that had been resting on top of my own papers when I arrived. On it were the words I had so carefully written the previous day before I stuck the note on a thorn of the small white rosebush in a pot that I had put in the middle of your desk, replacing the empty vase. I didn't really understand why you had put the note back on my desk, it still only held the one sentence that I wrote yesterday.

_ "I have roots of my own to keep myself alive"_

I looked at the small planted flower in its terracotta pot, now moved to one side on the desk. You where leaning over your paperwork but somehow you must have felt me watching you because for a second you lifted your gaze and looked back. Then you smiled a small smile and turned your eyes to the note in my hand before returning your attention to your work. I turned the note over and on the other side I saw your neat handwriting.

_ "Even a rose with roots needs someome who will care for it."_

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_**This was inspired by the way my own boyfriend gives me flowers. I never get cut ones because they die to soon. Instead I get potted ones, to take care of and watch them grow bigger. I like that a lot more. **


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